Best Enemies
by serenitysea
Summary: Close enemies in even closer quarters do strange and unexplainable things to people. Sarkney. SimonAllison
1. Part I

BEST ENEMIES ~ SERENITY SEA  
  
Email: Serenity_sea@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Spoilers: Anything S3 is fair game, some spoilers for A Missing Link.  
  
Distribution: ff.net, sd-1.com; if you want it, you can have it. Just let me know.  
  
Ship: Sarkney. Well, overall, Sarkney.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Honest, I don't. If I did, don't you think I'd have Irina in the season, already? 'Cause I would. And Syd would be all "Vaughn who?" Cause she'd love Sark and-I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't own them. Clearly.  
  
Author's Note: While this is most definitely a new step for me--I know, another one, right?--I would just like to point out that I am very excited about this story. I don't know how long it will be or if I will even continue it, but even the way it's laid out--it's completely different from my usual style. I would VERY MUCH appreciate feedback. Because, of course, if it's awful, then I would give it up in a heartbeat.  
  
* * *  
  
The mission was a set up.  
  
She knew as soon as Dixon started briefing them (cue Vaughn and Lauren gooey eyed looks here) that he had somehow pulled it off. And she was pissed. It was one thing to escape CIA custody under the guise of being robbed of eight billion dollars. It was quite another to all but demand her presence on a mission.  
  
Of course, no one in this room knew she was the one he wanted. Of course not. They couldn't know. It wasn't as if he'd asked for her personally, outright. No. He'd sent in one of his friends to do the job for him.  
  
She hid an evil smile behind her hand and pretended to be interested in what Marshall was trying to explain.  
  
Bad Syd was back. And she was ready to do some heart-stomping.  
  
* * *  
  
When they got to Spain, the restaurant-slash-club was hopping. In fact, there were so many people there, she almost had trouble singling out the bodyguard. He was, in the least of all logical places, guarding the door to the bathroom.  
  
Sydney carefully smoothed back some of her hair, simultaneously activating her comm. "I've spotted the guard. Going radio silent."  
  
"Copy that, Syd. We'll cover you from down here." Vaughn. Like he still had the right to call her "Syd." She fought back an aggravated scream and instead turned off her comm. with pleasure.  
  
The guard, who had seen her walk in, was not impressed with her. Perhaps he didn't think she could take him.  
  
She looked at him carefully, estimated his body weight and factored in the various weapons she knew were somewhere on his person.  
  
Yeah.  
  
She could.  
  
"I'm meeting someone here."  
  
No response.  
  
"He said he would be wearing a purple shirt."  
  
Again, silence. Well, not that it was his fault. This was, after all, Spain. Lots of men wore purple shirts.  
  
Sydney rolled her eyes and stomped her foot irritatedly. "Dammit, Nikolai, let me see him!"  
  
Finally, some progress. She watched as he spoke with someone on the other end of his earpiece, observantly monitoring his eyes and facial expression while he did so. Damn. This guy was just as good as she remembered. He gave nothing away.  
  
He drew his eyes back up to hers.  
  
Her brow rose. "Well?"  
  
"Sydney." That voice. Smooth, charming, and every bit as dangerous as it's possessor.  
  
She turned. And there he was. Wearing that damn purple shirt. Propelled by a force that she couldn't explain, with a very devil-may-care smile hanging about her lips, she sauntered over to him. "Simon."  
  
The dark man smiled. His green eyes--so unlike another pair of green eyes she knew--glinted in the darkness. "Want to make him jealous?" He whispered softly, lowering his head.  
  
She let her lips linger against his. "Yeah," she whispered back. "He deserves it."  
  
They were so close she could feel his lips curve up against hers in response and forced herself not to react too blatantly when he closed his eyes and kissed her.  
  
What she didn't know was that he had maneuvered her into Vaughn's line of vision.  
  
When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her with a satisfied smirk. A smirk that, while all too familiar, reminded her of the objective. "You jerk. You stuck your tongue in my mouth."  
  
In the seductive tone they were using as cover, he replied, "I had to make it look convincing, didn't I?"  
  
She glared. "Convincing for who?"  
  
"You wound me." His eyes had darkened to fiercest jade. "Come now, Sydney. In about five minutes, I'll make the call. You can be sure that he already knows of what just transpired," he ducked in for another kiss before she could stop him. "Besides. You can't accuse me of a job inadequately completed. We damn near set the room afire."  
  
Sydney dared to glance over at Weiss and Vaughn, both of whom were sitting at their center-point table, jaws scraping the floor. She grudgingly admitted he had a point.  
  
He beamed. "Thought so." When he was certain the two goons at the table had taken their eyes away for a split-second--probably to call their superiors, it wasn't as if there was protocol for this--he reached up between their closely pressed bodies and tapped her on the nose playfully. "I've got a job to do."  
  
She shook her head ruefully and smiled, one of the few rare smiles that had the pleasure of escaping as of late. Before he had completely withdrawn from hearing distance, she added, "Thank you, Si."  
  
He, not looking back, threw a backhanded wave at her. Then he disappeared behind Nikolai. When she looked past the large man, he was already gone.  
  
* * *  
  
(Elsewhere.)  
  
The man had been sitting inside his room for hours. He was tired, cranky, and sore. He also thought the climate was giving him some sort of sore throat, which only added to his discomfort.  
  
He was not a man accustomed to discomfort.  
  
When she had arrived, something in him had relaxed. She'd gotten his message. Good. Everything was going according to plan.  
  
He'd only taken his eyes away for a second, to check the time, when he suddenly took notice of the screen and sat straight up.  
  
"Bloody hell."  
  
The two continued to go at it in front of a rather large--and appreciative, knowing that bunch quite well--crowd.  
  
"I said, "Meet her," you sodding git! Not "make out with her!" He was five seconds away from calling his contact in that location and having them both killed when they finally separated. There wasn't much you could fake over a video feed, and apparently lust was one of those things.  
  
Unless he was misreading the situation-and he didn't think he was-the man in the picture was the more willing participant.  
  
They spoke quietly-too quietly for his tastes, for the cameras couldn't pick it up, nor could he make out what words their lips were forming--and then he left.  
  
Precisely 22 seconds later, his cell phone rang.  
  
* * *  
  
"It's Simon." He added unnecessarily. Surely, the man on the other line knew his voice by now.  
  
Silence.  
  
"I gather you're not all too pleased with my performance down there. Personally, I thought it was one of my better--"  
  
''--Where is she?" He cut him off.  
  
"Best guess? Making some sort of excuses to her ex-handler. Have you seen that man? Biggest bunch of wrinkles under 35. Damn scary, if you ask me."  
  
"I didn't ask you. In fact, all I wanted was for you to meet up with her and make sure she was doing well." The cold fury in his voice was enough to bring a lesser man to his knees. "And you go and do something like that. I cannot believe you place such little value on your life."  
  
He chuckled quietly. "My god, you've really fallen for her. Cheer up. She's ready to castrate me as it is, I don't need a death warrant on my head to cap it off." He reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper she slipped in his pocket, when they were in deepest part of the kiss. And here he'd thought she wanted to cop a feel. Well, that was enough for him. See if he'd do her another favor any time soon. His butt felt very offended at this point in time.  
  
"Says she'll be waiting at the extraction point."  
  
A cool pause. "Did she, now?" He cursed fluently. "And just what makes her think that after that little performance, I'm so willing to "extract" her?"  
  
"Get over it, mate. She may be a handful and a half, but she's bloody gorgeous and just as mad about you as you are about her. I honestly don't know why you're wasting all this time talking to me when--"  
  
*click*  
  
And that answered that question.  
  
* * *  
  
When her phone rang in the alleyway, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Then she remembered that it couldn't be Vaughn, or her father, or even Dixon, with breaking information. She'd gone radio silent. Which meant only one thing.  
  
"I see you've remembered how to use to a phone."  
  
"It would appear so."  
  
Sydney sighed and didn't care that the grimy brick wall she was about to lean her head against was probably crawling with parasites. "About time."  
  
He waited just enough to give her some idea of how livid he was. "You have some explaining to do, Sydney."  
  
The way he said her name, so coldly furious, and yet still managed to make it sound like an endearment, sent frissions down her spine. And yet, only one response came to mind. "Looks like you picked up something in my country after all, Sark."  
  
And just like that, his anger at her dissolved. "I guess I did." She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he was doing at that precise moment. Probably smirking at her. "Minx." There it was. In person or not, she knew that smirk. She could *hear* it.  
  
In spite of the situation, she giggled. And when the black Mercedes roared down the alley five minutes later, she threw her legs over the door and got in.  
  
* * *  
  
Well? 


	2. Part II

Best Enemies | Part Two  
  
"At what point, exactly, did kissing Simon become part of the plan?"  
  
Sydney shrugged, letting one arm hang out the side of the car as Sark drove in his usual careless fashion. "When we got tired of waiting for you to give the signal."  
  
"And those two CIA-issued goons? Was it for their benefit," he wrenched the wheel in a sharp turn, "as well?"  
  
"Just one," she braced her bare feet on the dash, admiring the red polish she'd applied to match her fingers.  
  
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glare at her. She rolled her eyes and slowly removed her feet. "You know how mad I am at him?"  
  
"Sydney, he was constantly in a state of indecision; it took him forever to just go on a date with her. Blonde all nearly jumped him in the interrogation room once--and I was forced to watch. It wasn't pretty." She shot him a dirty look. He gave her a sympathetic glance and tangled his free hand in her hair. "Could be worse."  
  
Sydney eased back in her seat and let her head rest against the palm of his hand. "Do I even *want* to know?"  
  
"He could have married some woman who liked more like you."  
  
She shuddered and he gave her neck a quick squeeze in return. Sark would have turned up the heat, but he knew she wasn't shivering from the cold.  
  
* * *  
  
They arrived at the warehouse to see Simon's red Ferrari. Sark got out and ran his hand along the hood. Sydney looked at him questioningly.  
  
"Still warm. I don't know how, but he beat us here."  
  
"Didn't know we were racing."  
  
She could tell by his dismissing sigh that he was irritated. He was a competitor, of course they had been racing. She tried very hard to hide a grin behind her hand and failed, because the next thing she knew, Sark had his arm around her waist and was tickling her side gently.  
  
The doors rolled open automatically and they made their way in, laughing. It wasn't until they heard the echoes of their laughter bouncing off the far edge of the facility that they stopped.  
  
Sydney glanced at him briefly, venturing, "Hello? Anybody home?"  
  
Sharp footsteps could be heard and slowly a pair of legs came into view. She watched in horror as the features of the person came into the light.  
  
"Hello, Sydney."  
  
* * *  
  
Faster than a shot, Sydney whipped out her gun and aimed it at the woman. She'd fired off two shots before Sark tackled her painfully to the ground, wrenching the gun away.  
  
"Sydney, stop!"  
  
She kicked out, trying to get away from him. "No! Let go of me! She killed my best friend! She tried to murder Will!--It's *her* fault I lost two years--" she choked on a sob, "--it's her fault I lost. Vaughn."  
  
Abruptly, Sark's arms tightened forcefully around her and he flipped her over, onto her back none too gently. "Stop this. *Now.*" He commanded coldly. Her movements ceased. He took his eyes away for a second to glance at Allison.  
  
She walked over warily, one hand clutching her arm tightly.  
  
"How bad?" He asked, keeping his eyes trained on the woman beneath him.  
  
"It's just a scratch." Both noticed as Sydney flinched at the sound of her voice. "I'll need a new jacket, though."  
  
"Consider it done."  
  
For a woman who, the last time Sydney had seen her, had all the appearances of being dead, she looked pretty damn good. She had lost a lot of weight. No longer needing to maintain Francie's voluptuous figure, she slimmed down at least two sizes and could have easily borrowed some clothes from Sydney herself. Her hair was long. It was darker, and hung in a shining black curtain down her back, complimenting her skin quite nicely. But it was still her face. she still had Francie's eyes, her mouth, her nose--her cheekbones were more defined, as a result of the weight loss, but the resemblance was very apparent.  
  
"You should have *died* in that house," Sydney spat out furiously, her voice cracking with emotion.  
  
"Sydney," he quietly said, drawing her gaze and attempting to calm her. She looked away stubbornly, denying both of them the reassurance they needed. He briefly closed his eyes and they awkwardly got to their feet.  
  
Sark kept one arm draped protectively across her shoulders and began to walk away, glancing back sadly at Allison.  
  
She gave him a tired smile in response and fought not to collapse. She started to wobble slightly as she headed for the other exit. Her knees suddenly buckled but before she went down, a strong pair of arms caught her.  
  
"Shh, babe. It's okay. I've got you." Simon rubbed his hands up and down her arms, frowning when the left came away slicked with blood. "She got you?"  
  
"Just nicked me. She's still got it." Her weak attempt at a grin had him smiling back as he helped her up.  
  
"S'why he loves her."  
  
"At least someone does," Allison said quietly, leaning into Simon's arm. "God knows she needs it."  
  
* * *  
  
"What *was* that?" Are you playing with my head, because I swear, Sark, you will regret the day you ever agreed to this if your entire plan was to screw with me."  
  
Her voice was threateningly low and her eyes fairly sparked with anger.  
  
He took one look at her and was suddenly reminded of just how very much he cared.  
  
"I am not--and you should know better by now--'screwing with you.' I wouldn't do that--especially since I worked so hard to get you out of it the first time. But Sydney, you are just going to have to trust me on this one."  
  
"Give me one good reason why I should."  
  
Sark grabbed her chin with one hand and forced her to his gaze. "Because I love you." He threaded a hand into her hair and smoothed it away from her face. "And you know it."  
  
Her eyes slowly welled up with tears and she threw herself into his boyd, knowing he would catch her, just like he had before.  
  
"Okay," she whispered, letting him support her. "But only because you asked so nicely."  
  
They shared a brief grin and Sark pulled her to his side tightly, letting her draw strength from their joined closeness.  
  
"I'm not," he thumbed a tear off her face, "asking you to love her the way you loved Francie, or even like her all that much. But she's trying. And wasn't the only one who went through that night. You may find it helpful to talk to her about it."  
  
She whipped her head off his chest. "I am *not* going to ask her how hard it was to stab Will, or what it felt like to fight when every muscle in my body was screaming how wrong it was. I *do.* *Not.* *Trust.* *Her.* And the only reason--the *only reason*--I am even *considering* something other than putting a bullet in her head is because you asked me to. That's *it.*"  
  
He observed her calmly and nodded. "Very well then.But you should at least think about apologizing to her for damaging her jacket."  
  
Sydney glared at him and rolled her eyes. "Forget it. I'm not going to apologize to her for *anything*."  
  
"Not even shooting her in the arm? She didn't fire at you this time," he reminded.  
  
"I said forget it, Sark, and I meant it."  
  
Sark remained quiet as he stared at her and she was unable to hold his searing gaze. He looked as if he expected more form her, but for once, she didn't care.  
  
Allison Doren had killed Francie and that was all she needed to know.  
  
* * *  
  
End Part Two.  
  
Well? I know that was the first of many twists. What do you guys think?? 


	3. Part III

Best Enemies | Part Three  
  
"Don't you remember how she was when she first got here?"  
  
Allison shuddered. "She wasn't herself. It was scary."  
  
"Well, that's what Sark is worried about. He doesn't want her to fall back into that--and doesn't want her going back to that life. It's going to kill her if she does and they both know it."  
  
"I'm worried for both of them. God, Simon, if you had just seen the look in her eyes when she saw me--I thought that degree of hatred was reserved specifically for Arvin Sloane." She brushed her hair aside. "It was so different. I know--when I was *her*, I was treated differently, there was love in her eyes. But even that night, when we were firing off shots at each other--it was like she couldn't believe it--she didn't look at me like that. It was so cold--"  
  
"--like him." He once again finished her thoughts.  
  
Allison nodded. "Yeah. Just like him."  
  
Simon leaned back against the bed they were resting on and pulled her with him, careful of her bandaged arm. "*That's* what I'm scared of. Because he can go down that road and come back--that's what she does for him. But if *she* went down that path--I'm no so sure they would recover."  
  
"It would kill them," she was starting to understand his fear.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
She shifted to look at him. "You don't think--"  
  
"Not sure. But you remember what she was like. Time can change a lot, but darkness like that. it's not just something that you wash out, like a stain. It has a way of embedding itself into your soul."  
  
* * *  
  
| SIX MONTHS EARLIER. . . |  
  
He was on the usual reconnaissance job. The employer wanted a scope of the area before they decided to move on the unique gem collection. There was another group scheduled to make an appearance tonight, but he'd yet to see them. The standard cautionary measures were taken; his point man was at the door, ready at his signal, they'd planned three alternate escape routes, his gun was hidden and there was a knife hidden in his left boot.  
  
Everything was going according to plan when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and was met with the startling brown eyes of a rather striking woman. She was dressed in a simple black dress, her neck and wrists nearly dripping with diamonds. He'd be buggered if she was the contact.  
  
"How do they look?" Her voice was appropriately deep, and sent chills down his back. If he had been single.  
  
"Marvelous."  
  
"Good. Come with me," she smiled coyly and laced their fingers together.  
  
They cut a path through the small crowd and he had no choice but to follow as she led them to a small back room.  
  
"Don't suppose I can get your name?"  
  
She stopped in front of an unassuming door and kicked it wide open. Locking eyes with him and giving a seductive smile, she reached for his concealed gun. She ignored the shocked stares of the couple making great use of the round bed and fired two shots directly into their heads.  
  
"The name," she tucked the gun familiarly back into his waistband, "is Julia."  
  
"Simon. Pleasure to work with you."  
  
He had no time to prepare, for suddenly, her lips were nearly fused to his and they'd shoved the other two aside, while grabbing at clothes and mirroring the previous occupants' moves.  
  
Julia tore at his shirt and hungrily drank in the sight of his body while he worked on getting her dress unzipped. He'd had enough of the tricky clasps--and she'd lost patience with it--for the next thing he knew, she was kissing him again and kicking the dress off her hips.  
  
Simon kissed a line down her skin, starting from her neck and was working his way towards her stomach when his hands ran over a slight bump. There, almost even with her hip, was a small scar. Something triggered in his brain and he immediately froze.  
  
Julia looked up at him with lust clear in her eyes. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing," he reassured her, "It's just that--how did you get this scar?" He worshipped it with his lips and she looked down.  
  
"Oh that?" Simon nodded encouragingly. She shrugged. "I don't--" her eyelids suddenly fluttered almost comically, "--remember."  
  
Simon stared down at her in astonishment, chuckling to himself. "Bloody hell. Been years since my foreplay put someone to sleep."  
  
* * *  
  
He ran all the stop signs and red lights, nearly side-swiped a tourist family, and outran several cops while heading for the warehouse. Located near the bay, there were several large container ships and waiting boats that would hide their location well. While a red Ferrari wouldn't be the easiest thing to hide in eastern Spain, the amount of steel and titanium that covered the yard would easily block out signals of helpful police and keep away unwanted visitors.  
  
Allison met him before he got to the door and her jaw dropped. "But she--I thought she was--"  
  
Simon shook his head once, curtly. "She's obviously not. Set up the GPS locator and make sure the SAT phone's working. I'll need to set her down in the spare room, but I'm going to need a mild sedative to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone, least of all herself. Whoever was leading the team will worry soon enough, and we'll move as soon as she's stable."  
  
With the communication being well under way, Simon carried Julia--or Sydney, as she was really known--up a flight of stairs to a small room. He laid her on the bed and filled a syringe with a light blue liquid. Her eyes opened once, when the needle was stuck in, but closed before he'd finished administering the dosage.  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door behind him.  
  
In a room with no windows, and one lead door, even the most capable spy would have trouble escaping. He'd heard stories of Sydney Bristow and knew that she wasn't quite up to par with her usual skills. Either that, or something had gone seriously wrong. Because none of his reports showed a woman with any blatant scarring. Nor did she go by the alias of Julia.  
  
Allison was on the phone with their contact in LA when he reached her. "Yes. This is Mr. Walker. Tell him. . . we've found her."  
  
* * *  
  
"We were lucky we saved all your meds from the recovery. One thing I never want on my hands is a pissed off Bristow. Could get messy fast."  
  
Allison closed her eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder. "He got there pretty quickly, though. I mean, considering that he was in CIA custody and all. Did he ever mention how he escaped?"  
  
"Not once. And I haven't brought it up."  
  
"She didn't know, then."  
  
"Now that's something you'd have to ask her yourself."  
  
She snorted. "Yeah, because she's going to be so open to talking to me right now."  
  
* * *  
  
Sark sat on the edge of the bed and brushed back Sydney's hair. For a woman who donned wigs as frequently as she did, it was no wonder she left her hair natural and free when she could. He found he had an obsession with it. That he could think of nothing smoother and softer to run his fingers through at that at the end of the day, there was nothing else he'd rather do than this mindless movement of being close to her. Probably annoyed the hell out of her, but he liked it.  
  
And she would allow him his indulgences, no matter how strange she thought they were.  
  
"How long are we staying?"  
  
He wasn't surprised that she was still awake. "Until your friends from the CIA decide they can work better in the "Search for Sydney" if they're all home, depending on one computer tech and out of Europe. Where would you like to go?"  
  
"Home." The plaintive note to her voice was enough to make even the strongest heart crumble. And it left a few cracks in his when he thought that she'd rather be living her life of lies than with him. But if it made her happy.  
  
Sark dragged her upwards until she was forced to rest against him. "If you want--quite so badly--to go home tomorrow--I'll make the arrangements. But we can't keep doing this. It's too dangerous for everyone involved." He didn't tell her that the constant seeing her and having to let her go was pretty much destroying him.  
  
"When I said home, Sark," Sydney sighed, "I meant anywhere but here, someplace with you. There's so much chaos in that world now, I don't know if I'll ever want to go back. I don't know if I should. But my father will never stop looking for me. And--as much as we both hate to admit it-- neither will Vaughn. He was on the team when I left with you and he's going to take my disappearance personally."  
  
"Don't know why. It's none of his business. You don't belong to him anymore."  
  
She elbowed him sharply. "I don't belong to *anyone*."  
  
"Not true." He waited until she was looking at him to answer, "You belong to me."  
  
"Possessive jerk."  
  
"Yeah, but you love me."  
  
"For reasons unexplainable to man, you're right. I do."  
  
"Wait a second now. I wasn't proposing. Give it a few more months, Sydney, we've not even been together for half a year."  
  
Sydney laughed. "That wasn't what I was talking about and you know it."  
  
"I do. --Know it, I mean." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Now you've even got me talking like you. This is bad."  
  
She giggled and ran a hand through his curls. "I'm glad you grew your hair back."  
  
Glad for the change in subject, and mood, he teased, "What--didn't you like the prison cut they gave me?"  
  
"Nope." Sydney punctuated this with a kiss on each side of his temple. He closed his eyes, at peace.  
  
"I suppose I could always cut it again." He trailed off, wincing as the fingers in his hair tightened painfully. "Or not," he concluded, breathing easier when her grip receded.  
  
There was a mischievous smile on her face as she continued to comb her fingers in his hair. Apparently, the habit went both ways. "Nice to see. . . I have you at my mercy."  
  
Her fingers, however, weren't the only ones that could move.  
  
Sark reached out and turned off the light. "Pleasure to be here."  
  
* * *  
  
End part three!!! 


	4. Part IV

BEST ENEMIES | PART FOUR  
  
A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this out. I had planned things for Allison but she somehow warped them. Sadly, a fight ensued. Don't worry. We're both still alive. It just took me a little longer than I had planned to get this done.  
  
* * *  
  
The following morning was. . .well, weird. To be eating breakfast with someone who wasn't--but still looked like--Francie, to see her almost happy with Simon, instead of Will. it was like her world had been turned on it's axis. She wouldn't have been surprised if she looked out the window and the sky was green at this point.  
  
"Good eggs." Allison remarked, breaking the 6 minute, 24 second silence. She punctuated the statement by another healthy forkful.  
  
Simon pointedly gazed at Sark and Sydney's end of the table. Sark, in return, made a show of flipping the full-paged newspaper over and ignored the rest of the table entirely. Typical. When the man had a situation he didn't like, and for whatever reason, couldn't change--he did his best to pretend it wasn't happening. Over the course of time, he'd perfected the minor talent into an art.  
  
Anyone watching them right now would have almost assumed he wasn't even there.  
  
"Yes. They are good. The cheese bits really make it, though."  
  
Sydney pushed the scrambled eggs around on her plate. "I'm allergic to cheese."  
  
With that, Allison pushed back her chair and left the room. Simon gave the couple a dirty look and went after her.  
  
Finally, Sark put down his papers. "Fabulous eggs. I didn't know you were allergic to cheese, Love."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
* * *  
  
He found her standing on one of the three balconies in the warehouse. The funny thing about warehouses was that they were usually big and boring. But this one had two converted master living quarters, each with balconies and full bath and sitting rooms. The other was just outside the kitchen, overlooking the busy street.  
  
Simon allowed his shoulder to rest comfortably against hers, trying not to take offense when she made no move to reciprocate the feelings. He saw the warring emotion on her face and knew she was about to do something very rare. Open up. About herself. He thought it would be best not to say anything until she got out what she wanted to say.  
  
"I know," she began, in such a stilted tone of voice Simon wanted to put his arms around her to make it easier. "--I know, after the Covenant found me and used the Rambaldi manuscripts to find a cure, and healed me--I was a mess. And it took me a very long time to get back to some façade of normal. It took us even longer to get here."  
  
He reflected about the time they'd spent, pushing her back into fighting form, getting her ready for field missions again, but most of all--giving her back to herself. Making her Allison Doren again, instead of Francie Calfo. It had been back-breaking work, but they had done it. And then sealed the celebration with a *real* celebration.  
  
"I had to become me again before I would even consider getting into anything with you. Tippin was still imprinted in my memory, and as much as I wanted to just erase him, I knew I couldn't. And we both knew it."  
  
Now she turned to him, with fury raging in her eyes and it was all he could do not to step away. "But I swear, Si. I see Sydney, and it all comes rushing back. Despite everything I do to stop it--I find myself becoming *her* again. For Sydney. So she can breathe a little easier. I can't be all sugar and smiles again. I never could. I tried last night and it just felt. weird. But she's doing this to me--and I'm *not* going to let it happen."  
  
She pulled a gun out of her pocket and shot twice into the air.  
  
He watched as two birds plummeted to the ground. She followed their flight with a dark look on her face and looked grimly satisfied as she left him alone.  
  
Simon sighed heavily and prayed that he wasn't making a mistake by staying here, with Sark. He'd come to a sort of tentative friendship with the man, and god knew he cared about what happened to Sydney, but if it meant the two of them or Allison, he'd have to side with Allison.  
  
She had come into his life more than a year ago and suddenly the line between business and associate had taken on two very different meanings. The line had been blurred. And neither of them cared. Neither did their occasional employer. Most were actually happy that they were a package deal. Two for the price of one.  
  
And until Sydney and Sark had come along, they were the best team on the market.  
  
Freelancing had been their skill and they worked very well together. Allison usually oversaw the technical matters of the mission, saw into security and things like that. Simon was the people man. He went and directly met with each client, made sure they weren't evil people either of them had double-crossed in the past, and that they had the means to follow through with payment.  
  
But after recognizing Sydney in the bedroom, that had all changed.  
  
* * *  
  
~ SIX MONTHS PREVIOUSLY~  
  
"I say we kill her."  
  
Simon shot her an annoyed look. "Allie. We can't just *off* her. He's paying us to find her."  
  
"So? We found her. Job completed. Now we kill her."  
  
"Not a possibility, babe. He'd be furious."  
  
She threw her hands up in the air and started to pace. "Like it really matters! What's he going to do, send us poisoned prison food? They don't exactly give you money to FedEx your leftovers to your friends in Europe. Especially when those said friends are among that country's most wanted list."  
  
He sat and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "We're not killing her. I at least want to find out what she knows. And why she was going by the name of Julia. It's not on our list of alias's she used before, and it wasn't intel passed along to us. Which means whatever she's been doing the past few months--the reason we couldn't find her--was because she's been someone else all along. We were looking for an entirely different person. The wrong one." He looked up at her with a gleam in his eye. "Go find out everything you can about Julia Thorne."  
  
Allison raised an eyebrow. "You know her last name, now?"  
  
"Searched her. It's amazing where people put things nowadays." He could see the jealous look start to appear in her eyes and he added, "Please. I'd like to know who we're dealing with before she wakes up."  
  
*  
  
(Two days later.)  
  
What little they found wasn't very enlightening. But it did clear a few things up.  
  
"So the Covenant must have had you both at the same time. Only, you weren't the woman in Rambaldi's prophecy, so they tested all the healing processes on you before they used it on her. Once you healed, you were free to go. But she was totally reconstructed. Anyone in this business knew her reputation, how valueable she was. And they knew she could be a perfect assassin."  
  
"So that's what they trained her for?"  
  
"It appears so, but there are a few loose ends."  
  
"Like?" Allison was getting impatient and very tired of worrying about a woman who'd shot her three times in the chest. It was hard to not take that personally.  
  
"Such as, why was she my contact? Rather, *was* she my contact? Perhaps she killed the real one. And if so, what was she looking for? What was she trained to look for?"  
  
Allison slammed her gun down on the metal table. "I don't know! And frankly, I don't care! Aren't you just a little freaked out that he's risking his life to come see her? They were never in a relationship, they had a very strange past, full of almost-killings and threats--it just seems weird that he's willing to make such a sacrifice. If they ever find him again--"  
  
"I'll be killed." A smooth, accented voice answered from the doorway, light spilling around his silhouette.  
  
Her heart jumped into her throat. "Sark."  
  
"Hello, Allie." He moved in his usual confidant gait and shook Simon's hand firmly. "Thank you for taking care of this. How is she?"  
  
"We've been keeping her mildly sedated--nothing serious, mind you-- but enough to keep her sleeping. Right now, the best thing for her is to get some rest."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"Because it's what I had to do for the first couple of days."  
  
Sark's gaze shifted to Allison. "You appear remarkably well for a woman presumed dead."  
  
It hurt her that he could be so aloof and calculating towards her and yet willing to cross the ocean for a woman who'd undoubtedly made his life hell. God knew she'd messed with enough of his jobs to drive a person insane. He still had the scar from the ice pick.  
  
"I'm alive," she cuttingly replied, "No thanks to you."  
  
"Yes, because there was ever so much I could assist you will while being held in CIA custody."  
  
"And yet you're here," she tilted her head in consideration. "Amazing, isn't it?"  
  
Simon rolled his eyes at their behavior and leaned against the far wall. "Are you two finished yet?"  
  
"No." They answered.  
  
"Fine, fine," he put his hands up in defense, gearing up to wait out the long situation. "How are you here, mate? Thought you were locked up for all eternity."  
  
"It's been taken care of." Sark quietly replied in a tone that brooked no questions.  
  
Allison would have made some sarcastic remark about his methods, or why he hadn't yet requested a glass of Petruse, something he more than longed for after his stay in a cell of desolation and he welcomed a distraction.  
  
Just not the form it came in.  
  
A loud commotion sounded from their right and they looked to see a struggling Sydney Bristow crashing though the door.  
  
"Thought you could keep me asleep," her voice was slurred as she headed for Simon. "Truth is, the thought of being any where near your body turned me off more than cows in India. And I just didn't want to see your face any more. So I let you stick the needles in me, cause I just didn't care. Now I do."  
  
Simon looked uninterested. "Well then, it appears our feelings run the same way. Always thought you were a forward little bit, sticking your tongue down my throat before we'd even been properly introduced."  
  
"Like you cared," she retorted, a familiar fire coming back into her eyes. She must have felt his eyes on her for abruptly her gaze shifted.  
  
"Well, well. If it isn't the reckless blonde with a passion for wine."  
  
Sark let the usual smirk fall into place. "If it isn't Miss Bristow, suffering from what appears to be a killer hangover."  
  
"I am not--hic--" she pointed a shaky finger at him, "--hung--hic-hic- over."  
  
As a series of hiccups left her in a fit of giggles, Sark rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Allison. She refused to meet his look and instead wandered around the room.  
  
"I killed, you know."  
  
The three remaining sane people gave her their full attention. "Lots of people I killed. But it doesn't matter. It washes away and no one cares. They have families, but they will learn to get over it. I always did."  
  
She walked over to Sark on unsteady feet and shook her finger again. "But you--you might have shed a tear or two. After all, your old man left you lots of money."  
  
"I'm afraid you're mistaken. My father is dead. He has been for quite some time." Sark answered softly, letting them all know this conversation was to go no further.  
  
"Yep," she grinned lopsidedly. "He's dead. Killed him myself. I wish everyone would be so willing to open the door. Might make my job a lot easier."  
  
He was suddenly gripping her shoulders with brute force that almost brought tears to her eyes. "What are you talking about? Tell me. *Now*!"  
  
"You're hurting my arms," she whined, completely unaware that Allison now had a gun trained on the back of her head, that Sark was ready to do her in himself. His grip loosened infinitesimally and she gave him a look. "Don't know why you want to hurt me so bad. All I did was my job. Same as you. Same as alway--" She hissed in great pain and flung away his hands easily to press her fingers to her temples. For some reason, she seemed to be in unexplainable pain, and he wanted to help her.  
  
Not knowing what to do, he looked at Allison for guidance.  
  
"Don't give me that look. I don't know what's going on with her. I also don't remember this happening to me."  
  
Sark leaned down to look in her eyes when she snapped her head up so quickly he nearly got his jaw clipped. The brandy color was clear and tired, but he recognized it as her.  
  
She frowned. "I know you. You're. you're." she rubbed distractedly at her head and squinted in earnest. "Sark. You are Sark."  
  
"Yes, that is correct."  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
Disorientation was really not her best look. "Let's just say I've come for a visit."  
  
"But I thought--you were captured. You're supposed to be locked in a cell and I'm supposed to be with Vaughn in Santa Barbara."  
  
"And yet here you are."  
  
The fog in her eyes cleared and she appeared to be filtering through her memories. "I don't remember a thing. must have really hit my head when I fell."  
  
"Either that, or you're doing a hell of a time trying to keep out unwanted memories. It appears, Miss Bristow, that you've recently come back from killing my father. And I want to know what you'd do such a thing."  
  
Her face went very pale. She started to shake. Sark had just enough time to catch her before she fainted.  
  
He looked down at the fallen woman in his arms. "Allison, you need to get out of here. Take a vacation. Lock yourself in your room. I don't care. But I don't want to see you. Is that clear?" She was going to argue, he could read it in her stance, and he curtly added, "Let's not forget who signs the checks, shall we?"  
  
Simon opened his mouth to protest and Sark refused to take his eyes off Sydney while answering, "Make sure she's not seen. And then make yourself useful and tell me what the hell is going on here. And why Sydney Bristow would kill my father; a man I've never even met, but somehow am beginning to feel sorry for."  
  
* * *  
  
Dun dun DUN!!!  
  
There ya go! Enjoy and review, please! 


	5. Part V

Best Enemies | Part Five  
  
* * *  
  
The day moved slowly after that. Sydney knew that both Sark and Simon were busy tracking her father and the other CIA agents as they one by one gave up the search for her and retreated to the States to get a firmer grasp on just where she was. Deceiving her dad was never something she enjoyed doing, especially after everything that had happened, but for now she had to keep everyone close to her in the dark.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sark purred, sliding his hand into the curve of her neck and kissing her temple.  
  
Well, maybe not everyone.  
  
She smiled up at him and shifted to give him clearer access. "Thinking."  
  
"Isn't that rather dangerous?"  
  
Sydney swatted him on the arm and shifted out of his embrace. "Just for that--I'm not going to spar with you today!"  
  
He laughed and brought his hand to rest on her waist. They started walking towards the stairs, back to their room. "If I recall correctly, I wasn't the one who wanted to spar in the first place."  
  
"You're such a jerk."  
  
"I love you, too, dearest."  
  
* * *  
  
Simon had locked himself in his room after brooding on the balcony for a good 20 minutes. Allison had made some excellent points. The transformation she had undergone had stripped her of her identity. It had taken much of her self-esteem with it and it was a wonder that she still had her underlying traits. Some things, like her aggression and pent up anger, were explainable. She was pissed. At everyone and everything, because they could be who they truly were and she couldn't. Not even if she wanted to.  
  
Some things, like the way she handled a gun, and her hesitancy to go outside during the day--those were embedded into her because of their profession. Other things, like her fear of dogs and bright colors--those were pure Allison Georgia Doren traits--and he'd only seen them sneak through her many façades.  
  
* * *  
  
F L A S H B A C K  
  
Sark looked back down at Sydney and silently asked himself just why he'd gone through all the trouble of locating her in the first place. Getting out of CIA custody had used up nearly every favor he'd been owed, the discreet flight to Europe had cost a fortune and he knew, that under no uncertain circumstances, when this was all over, he'd be right back in his little glass cage.  
  
So why had he made the effort in the first place?  
  
That wasn't something he was ready to answer just yet.  
  
While he was thinking, Simon was assessing him. For nearly a year, he'd been searching for Sydney Bristow under orders of one Mr. Sark. What he could find on his employer was next to nothing. There were rumors--oh, incredible rumors that were just insane enough to be true--and Allie had filled him in on some things, when he dared to ask. But what he really wanted to know was how man could set a church full of people on fire and not feel anything.  
  
The man had ice in his blood--another rumor--and apparently, one that was true. The only time he'd seen the cool look fade was when he'd set eyes on Sydney. Those two had a history, but not the type that would make you risk your life getting away from the United States Government.  
  
He decided that now would be a good time to go check on Allie and make sure she was doing okay.  
  
"Mr. Walker."  
  
Simon paused and turned back around. Sark was looking at him with something in his eyes that impossible to read. "I trust you'll take good care of Allison?"  
  
It was a statement, really.  
  
"Course."  
  
He nodded, pursing his lips. He did not look at Sydney or even register her form while she remained in his arms. It was as if she simply was not there. This was a conversation between two men discussing a certain woman.  
  
"Allison is a very fragile person. You must be," he paused, trying to form his thoughts into words, "very careful when dealing with her. The slightest thing may just set her off and--"  
  
Enough was enough. "With all due respect, Mr. Sark--can I call you Sark, then?--respect, and all that--I've lived with Allie for a year now. I know what she's like, I know how to deal with her. I don't need her ex telling me how it is."  
  
A blue fire banked in the back of Sark's eyes and he opened his mouth to speak. Sydney stirred and slung her arm around his neck, pulling herself closer to him. He shut his mouth and Simon met his gaze evenly.  
  
The door opened at the far end of the warehouse and Allison came flying out, two bags in her hand and the rare appearance of a wide-brimmed hat. She handed a bag to Simon and didn't look at Sark.  
  
"We're all set."  
  
"Right." He kissed her cheek and handed her his keys from his pocket. "Why don't you go get the car started?"  
  
She left and Sark followed her with his eyes. He sighed and shifted Sydney. "I--"  
  
"We'll see you in a couple of weeks, mate."  
  
* * *  
  
So, okay, their very first meeting had gone smoother than their second one. But eventually, Simon saw Sark open up about Allison and her likes and dislikes, childhood experiences she'd shared with him--things he never expected from her.  
  
"How long have you been in here?"  
  
He turned and saw her standing uncertainly in the doorway. Simon got up and drew her inside their bedroom. "Not nearly long enough to get anything productive done, that's for sure."  
  
She made an attempt at a smile, and let her eyes wander over the tastefully decorated room. "I might just be able to help you with that."  
  
It was weak and they both knew it.  
  
He kissed her gently and knew that what she was alluding to would be a bad idea right now. Allison sensed his hesitation and pulled away, heading for the closet. One thing she did not like was being rejected. "Forget it."  
  
"Babe--"  
  
"I said, *forget it*." She came back out in a sweatshirt and exercise pants. "I'll see you at dinner."  
  
* * *  
  
"If you're not going to spar with me, then I'm going to try and get some training done before the day is completely wasted."  
  
"Sydney--" he reached an arm off the bed for her.  
  
She giggled at his fading state. "Guess I really wore you out there, huh?"  
  
"I very much think you should come over here and see just how wrong that statement is."  
  
She dropped her shirt and bra to toss on a sports bra. Inside the third drawer were her white lycra pants. Sark was transfixed by the line of her body and got off the bed like a man in a trance. He laid a hand on her wrist and she stopped, looking up at him with certain vulnerability in her eyes.  
  
"Have a good workout," he murmured in her ear, brushing a hand down her arm. Goosebumps followed it its path. Sark gave her another inscrutable look and left her to her thoughts.  
  
"He is so frustrating."  
  
* * *  
  
One of things she couldn't seem to shake was her taste in music. Francine Calfo had made many mistakes. Her choice in men, the opening of restaurant that would never see life again after a year past it's opening, refusing to wear black clothes whenever possible--but her musical preferences wasn't one of them.  
  
It bugged Allison that after all her work trying to purge the life of Francie from her body, little things like her music choices stuck around for the long haul. She could eat coffee ice cream in peace, she could drink her espresso as strong as she wished without having to pretend it was tea, and she didn't have to wear frilly clothes when she left her room--but The Clash and some of Justin Timberlake's latest stuff wasn't really that bad.  
  
Right now she was blasting Nine Inch Nails' 'Deep' and it had this habit of getting under her skin and inside her mind until there was nothing to focus on but the heavy beat of the music and the matching tempo of her fists on the punching bag.  
  
Still, she wasn't completely unaware of her surroundings. No, that wouldn't do, to lose all conscious thought of what was going on around you. There was a dove at the basement window, pecking at the glass, probably thinking there was some type of nourishment. (That, or it was trying to avenge the death of its family members from before.)  
  
So it wasn't much of stretch for her to sense when someone entered the room.  
  
"This was one of Francie's favorite songs." Sydney folded her arms resolutely, giving her a death glare to the tenth power.  
  
Allison glanced over at the stereo and decided against lowering the volume. "I know. Found it in one of her CD mixes."  
  
The idea that an intruder had gone in and rifled through Francie's things irked her. The fact that she still might have something belonging to her best friend--when everything else had burned up in the fire that had taken the evidence of their friendship--made her anger rise another three notches.  
  
Sydney stormed across the gym floor and yanked the CD out of the player. The room was silent, save for the fuzz of the dead speakers resounding in the room, as she traced her finger's over her lost friend's handwriting. 'Francie,' she mouthed, unable to speak, her heart clenching painfully.  
  
"Put that back."  
  
Allison looked aggravated and had her hands on her hips. Sydney's heart was *screaming* that Francie was standing right in front of her, that she'd gone a little heavy on the black eyeliner and had forgotten to get her haircut, but her head was telling her to fight. To trust her gut instinct and provoke her until every trace of her existence was gone.  
  
"Make me." It was immature, but there was nothing childish about her chilling tone.  
  
Allison cracked her knuckles as a slow grin crept on her mouth. "I thought you'd never ask."  
  
* * *  
  
"Never thought I'd find you here."  
  
Sark looked up with a smirk. "I'm tracking Jack Bristow's phone calls right now--your reason for intruding was--?"  
  
Simon stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered around the room. "What did you do when Sydney didn't want to be around you?"  
  
His brows rose and he put down the pen. "Sydney never wanted to be around me. I coped. What's your point?"  
  
"Oh, there wasn't one. I was just wondering."  
  
Sark shook his head and went back to connecting the calls. It looked like Jack had first tried his contacts in Europe, and then resorted to telling whatever he knew to a single extension in the CIA. Calls had ended following that, and Sark noticed that his cable modem was particularly active afterwards.  
  
"Now what's someone like Jack Bristow doing online for two hours?" He wondered quietly, running his fingers down the call list, searching for a misdialed number or reoccurring number when Simon left the room.  
  
The rhythmic pounding that had been giving him a headache suddenly ended. Sark rose from his desk and went after him. He was surprised to see Simon heading back his way. "Hey, have you seen Allie?"  
  
Simon frowned. "No. I was coming to ask if you'd seen Sydney. I wanted to talk to her."  
  
Something prodded insistently at the back of his mind and he glanced at his watch. It had been quite some time since he'd left Sydney in the bedroom. It had been her intention to go to the gym, but he hadn't seen Allison since breakfast. When Allison had disappeared for long periods of time in the past, she'd gone to--  
  
"Shit."  
  
* * *  
  
Sydney swiped at the blood on her lip. "Give up?"  
  
Allison smirked and threw a punch to her stomach. "You kidding?"  
  
Sydney ducked out of range and used her momentum to knock Allison flat on her back. She was getting to rest beside her and go for her neck when Allison's legs hooked behind her knees and she fell. They scrambled to their feet and Allison made it first, knocking Sydney back down with a grin.  
  
"C'mon, *Syd*." Her voice had taken on Francie's easy-going tone. "You sure you don't want to just admit defeat? It'll be less painful in the end."  
  
Sydney flipped to her feet. "Where's the fun in that," she wondered aloud and kicked twice at the stranger with Francie's face.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," Allison retaliated by landing a punch on her shoulder and knocking her back a few steps, "going to ID a body at the morgue was never on my list of favorites. Then again, neither was pretending to be someone you're not--but you're really good at that, aren't you, Sydney?"  
  
The rage that had been slowly building in her burst. When she attacked Allison the other woman didn't stand a chance. She was momentarily distracted when the doors to the gym burst open and looked up to see Sark and Simon rushing in.  
  
That window was all Allison needed to flip their positions and get in some damage of her own.  
  
"Stop," Sark exclaimed, trying to pull Sydney off of her. "Sydney, stop this!"  
  
She reached back and nearly popped him on the nose. Stunned, Sark lost his grip on her and she went back to pounding on Allison.  
  
"*STOP*!" Simon yelled, his voice thundering through the echoing walls. Abruptly, both women did. A CD fell from Sydney's waistband only to land on the floor and crack in two. Allison stretched down and tried to grab it. Sydney was quicker, though and had her hand around one piece when Sark scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder.  
  
"You're a lousy kickboxer!" Sydney yelled, her voice sounding staggered as he walked away.  
  
"Yeah, and you need to learn to stop dropping your right hook," Allison called back, rolling her eyes and wiping at her temple where it had come in serious contact with the floor. "You always did."  
  
Sydney's eyes flared in anger and she started to squirm in Sark's hold. He gripped her tighter and there was no hint of tenderness behind the action.  
  
"You and I," he promised ominously, "are going to have a serious talk."  
  
The door slammed and Simon knelt down beside Allison to help her up. "What the hell just happened?"  
  
She shrugged and they gingerly leaned against a nearby wall. "She came in, looking for trouble. We just. . . snapped."  
  
"I'll say."  
  
He didn't know how to handle her when she was like this. This was the side of Allison he very rarely saw and it was like playing with fire. If he got too close, she'd burn him. If he stayed too far, she'd freeze him out. Simon looked down into her eyes, cupping her chin in his hand.  
  
He was shocked to feel the wetness on his hand. "Allie? What's wrong?"  
  
"Everything," she muttered, wiping the hot tears away, ashamed of their existence. "And I hate her."  
  
"No surprise there," Simon muttered, "but I have a feeling that might just be mutual."  
  
Allison moved away from his hand and started to wrap her bloodied wrists. "Who cares? If she stays here much longer, we're going to kill each other anyway."  
  
Simon looked at her, took in her wounded stance and the defensive way she held herself separate from him. "No," he said, "No, I don't think you will."  
  
"Oh?" She arched her eyebrow and winced in pain. He retrieved an icepack form the fridge that held their water bottles and other such necessities. After wrapping a towel around it and placing it on her wounded temple, he continued, "Because you were holding back, Allie. You were holding yourself back."  
  
* * * 


	6. Part VI

Best Enemies | Part Six  
  
Notes: Yikes. After a long hiatus, I think I've finally gotten back into the Sarkney groove. I feel more comfortable with this than I've felt writing in the past few days. . . So try not to trip over the characters, if they seem a little more off than usual. I'm actually really proud of this chapter, especially the chat between Syd and Si in the second scene.  
  
I would also like to say that the Sixpence None the Richer's first album (the first three songs in particular) heavily influenced this chapter. It's an older CD, but if you don't have it, I suggest picking it up.  
  
* * *  
  
He was still carrying her when she decided to speak.  
  
"I can't stand her."  
  
Sark merely adjusted her weight on his shoulder.  
  
"I really can't. I don't know why you insist of having her stay here."  
  
When he didn't even bother responding, she turned at the waist, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. "Sark?"  
  
Sark didn't answer her and continued walking along the halls to their room.  
  
"Oh, don't be like this." She lifted a hand in earnest, and let it fall against his back in defeat. "Dammit, Sark, don't go mute on me again! You know how much I hate when you do this." She let herself fall gently against his back and tried to be content with the nice view she had of his butt. When it wasn't effective and did nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in her stomach, she knew she had a problem.  
  
He shifted her again and opened the door, stopping once to deposit her on the bed like a package. Whereas before, this gesture would have been light and mischievous, or even a part of their foreplay (which usually didn't last that long anyway), it now only served to show just how angry he really was.  
  
One thing she'd learned about Sark--if she'd learned nothing else--was that when Sark was angry, he got quiet. The angrier he was, the quieter he became. When he went all out mute, she knew she was in for it.  
  
Pissed would be putting it mildly.  
  
Sark dragged the heavy wingchair over from the window and placed it at the foot of the bed. He sat down and regarded her with classically blank eyes.  
  
His thousand-yard stare.  
  
Got to her every time.  
  
She finally had the decency to look down in shame.  
  
After several minutes, Sark sighed very, very quietly. She met his gaze and was relieved to see the frustration in them. This was something she could deal with.  
  
"I am extremely disappointed in you," he finally remarked, his voice sounding hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.  
  
Sydney didn't attempt to apologize but she did stay on the bed to hear him out.  
  
"The only thing I asked you," he got up and moved to sit next to her, "was to try and be civil to her. Honestly, I didn't think it would be that difficult for someone of your caliber to compartmentalize what you were feeling. Obviously, I was wrong."  
  
That stung. She didn't know what hurt more, that he regarded her as a fellow agent, or that she'd failed him in his one request, after all he'd done for her.  
  
Sark reached into her waistband with a familiar ease and drew out the broken half of the CD. It ran jagged at the end and would have undoubtedly cut her if allowed to remain much longer.  
  
He ran his finger over its uneven form and wasn't surprised when Sydney's hand came into his line of sight and met his. He let her lace their fingers together and sighed again, leaning against the bed.  
  
Silently, she took the disc away from him and reached over his resting form to place it on their nightstand. Then she rested her cheek against his shoulder and grabbed his other hand, placing it on her hair. Absently, Sark began to comb his fingers through it, the habitual action calming them both.  
  
He shook his head, letting his eyes drift over her battered body. She hadn't made it out unscathed and had the bruises to show for it. The image of Allison punching Sydney in the side ran parallel in his mind with one of Sydney kicking the back of her knees.  
  
"I don't expect you to understand this--but when I walked into that room. . . God." Sark's hand tightened in her hair, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, really with him. "I'm almost positive my heart stopped beating."  
  
Sydney knew what that admission had cost him and felt her heart swell while she fought down feelings of remorse, if for no other reason than worrying him. "I won't say I'm sorry."  
  
He grabbed her hand and kissed her bloodied knuckles. "That's not what I'm asking."  
  
He went to the dresser and got out the bandages and a warm washcloth from the bathroom. Sark ignored her sharp intake of breath, her hiss of pain, and focused solely on his task. It wasn't that he was immune to her hurts, because God knew just how much he cared. Though he had tried to express that to her, albeit a touch poorly, he wondered if she would ever truly understand.  
  
"You would do best to be careful with these for the next couple of days," he muttered, his voice devoid of its earlier concern.  
  
"I know that." Hurt, Sydney snatched her hand back and finished wrapping it herself.  
  
Sark was swiftly holding her by the arms with a gritty look in his eyes. "Do you? Really?"  
  
And suddenly, they weren't just talking about her hands anymore.  
  
Angrily, she grabbed one of her sweatshirts and pulled it over her head. "I can take care of myself." She was sure to slam the door on the way out.  
  
* * *  
  
Sydney didn't know why, but she always sought out the balcony facing the water when she needed space. The sight of the vast open sea was so intimidating, so demanding in its simplicity and expanse, she couldn't help but feel awed. It was rare for other people to show up at the same time, however, and she was a bit startled to see Simon coming through the glass doors.  
  
"Sorry. Didn't know anyone else was out here."  
  
Sydney grabbed his arm. "No. Stay."  
  
"Sydney. . ."  
  
She directed her gaze back out to the city harbor below them. "It's amazing, isn't it? How these ships come in and out every day, and no one has a collision?"  
  
Simon gave her a look that clearly intimated he thought she was strange. "I guess."  
  
"No, think about it. All it takes is one wrong move, a little pressure from another side. . . and it could be all over in a matter of seconds."  
  
He glanced away. "Sure."  
  
"Simon," she turned to him, looking pleadingly into his eyes. "Don't you understand? People have accidents all the time."  
  
"It's really not an accident unless you're sorry, is it, Love?"  
  
And now he was staring at her with green eyes that knew all too well what she had done while she was Julia, what she was capable of as Sydney, and how badly she had messed up by unnecessarily provoking Allison into that fight.  
  
"I guess you're right," she slowly admitted, unable to hold his penetrating gaze any longer.  
  
He shrugged. "There are times," Simon said carefully, "when that's just not what you want to hear."  
  
She closed her eyes against the wind and let her arms rest against the railing. When he turned to leave, Simon pretended not to see the tear sliding down her cheek.  
  
* * *  
  
She didn't know how much longer she'd been out there when the footsteps returned.  
  
"Simon, I just--"  
  
Allison was staring at her intently. "No, really. What were you going to say?"  
  
Sydney stiffened and pretended that the sight of her bloodied features didn't bother her. Just because she looked like Francie didn't mean she'd done to *Francie*. She would never hurt her best friend that way.  
  
'But what about all those times you blew her off,' a little voice inside her head questioned. 'And all those times you lied to her, straight to her face? Don't you feel horrible for never setting the record straight?'  
  
Allison, who had been smirking at Sydney's reaction, now looked slightly panicked at the sudden display of emotion in her eyes. "I'll just leave you alone. Wouldn't want to offend you, or anything."  
  
She left without waiting for a parting remark and once again, it was just Sydney and the sky. Sydney was so engrossed in cataloging her grief and justifying her guilt, that she didn't hear the shaky sigh just outside the door.  
  
She didn't hear Allison sigh and couldn't have known she was leaning with her back to the wall, trying to deal with the new hand life had just dealt her. She didn't know that the other woman was having second thoughts, about her job, Simon, and life in general.  
  
She couldn't.  
  
Because once you lose that connection with a person, it's very nearly impossible to get it back.  
  
If you have enough determination, you can work at it, chip away the layers, and grab it by the horns until you weaken it to a point where it's tame enough to deal with on a day-to-day basis. But Sydney wanted nothing to do with the stranger wearing Francie's face.  
  
And so she didn't know that the connection between them was just waiting to be reopened.  
  
* * *  
  
---SIX MONTHS EARLIER---  
  
Allison stepped off the train and let her hand fall in his, cursing their aliases. She was no foreign princess, not by a long shot, and he knew it. How many princesses would seek out the utility closet and drag their security detail in after them? Simon winked, adjusted his suit and led them along until they were inside a darkened stairwell.  
  
She yanked her hand back and tore up the stairs, unlocking the single door at the top. While the outside of the building looked dilapidated and desperately in need of some attention, the inside of the flat was actually fairly new, with a contemporary sort of style.  
  
Allison took one look at the comforting décor and forgot she was mad at Simon. "I love this place."  
  
He smiled and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "I can't believe you didn't like it before, I thought you loved the color red. Said it reminded you of passion."  
  
Her eyes had closed when he came to her and her expression grew more troubled as he spoke. She swallowed out the image of the last red room she'd spent time in. "It does remind me of passion," she purred, turning in his embrace. "But my memory's been a little off lately. Maybe you should give me a refresher course. . ."  
  
Simon grinned lasciviously. "I think that's definitely in order."  
  
She laughed throatily and matched his grin. "*This* is why I love you."  
  
He halted his attentions to her bare shoulder and looked up. "And here I thought it was because of my mind. You only want me for my body," Simon pouted.  
  
"--Right now," she added, nipping at his lower lip playfully. "I'll deal with your mind later."  
  
"Ooh." They stumbled into the bedroom. "You know I love it when you talk dirty."  
  
* * *  
  
Hunger necessitated that they eat sooner rather than later. While he set about fixing them some sort of nourishment, Allison was catching up on mail that hadn't been seen in months. She was dressed in his shirt and boxers, looking more relaxed than she had in a long time.  
  
"What do you feel like having?"  
  
She looked up with a smile. "Whatever. I'm not picky."  
  
He snorted.  
  
"I'm *not.*"  
  
"Sure you aren't, babe."  
  
Allison rolled her eyes and went back to the local newspaper. "Did you know the neighbors were evicted two weeks ago?"  
  
"The Billingses?" Simon frowned, remembering the older couple with a fondness he rarely showed toward anyone but her.  
  
She bit her lip, scrolling down the page. "Yeah. Says here someone tried to buy them out and they wouldn't sell. So the super had them evicted."  
  
"They name the new tenant?" he asked very casually.  
  
Allison fixed him with a knowing grin. "Planning something?"  
  
Simon pressed a hand to his chest with a wounded expression. "Just want to welcome them to the neighborhood and all that."  
  
"Mmm hmm," she murmured, reading the text carefully.  
  
He added some cheese to the two slices of bread in the pan and cooked them while waiting for more information. He wasn't surprised when she got up and headed for the computer in the living room, for she was excellent at getting information and always got what she needed.  
  
Three minutes later, she had the printout in her hand with a dullish looking frown. Simon flipped the sandwiches over and then lifted them onto plates, handing one to her. She set it down unsteadily and held the paper out to him. "I think you should read this."  
  
The reading went into further detail about the eviction and the super's greedy attitude. "Bastard," he muttered, biting savagely into the grilled cheese. 'The new owner, Ms. Julia Thorne, had the apartment entirely redone. The workers came and toiled for over seven weeks, gutting the flat and remaking it in her image. Ms. Thorne declined to comment, but. . .'  
  
By the time he looked up, she was glaring at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. "All I want to do is move on. And she's *everywhere*!"  
  
To himself, Simon wondered what bothered her more; that Sydney had been the one to do it, or that she'd done nearly the same thing Allison had asked for on arrival. It was almost eerie, the way their actions ran parallel at times.  
  
She continued to rant angrily, now swiping at items on the shelves. The glass vases fell, unattended, to the floor and shattered. The books landed on their bindings and nearly split down the middle. He'd seen her angry before, but not like this--never like this.  
  
When she had finished destroying their living quarters, Allison looked at him defiantly, no hint of apology in her. She followed his gaze as he surveyed the damage and remained silent.  
  
Simon bit his lip and gauged her carefully. Then he walked until he stood in front of her, their toes touching. "You know," his voice was nearly a whisper, "you're really quite jumpable when you get all fired up like that."  
  
Against her will, she felt her lips curving into a smile as they suddenly moved under his. "You're such a jerk."  
  
* * *  
  
Allison was asleep. When she slept--really slept--she was dead to the world. He knew ever since Sydney's arrival and Sark's subsequent break out Allison had been lucky if she'd gotten three hours each night. Granted, in their world, six hours was heaven, and most people could function on at least four, if they were traveling back and forth, but when in a long-term assignment like this--you needed every bit of sleep you could get.  
  
With her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, and thin sheet covering them, Simon could almost pretend they were a perfectly normal couple. He could toy with her near waist-length hair and imagine that she'd grown it out for him, instead of using it as another feature to separate herself from Francie. The same went for her dislike of the color red. It was a little known secret that Francine Calfo's restaurant had been painted in a vibrant shade of crimson. It went well with her personality and brought life to the inside.  
  
Allison had never liked red from that point on.  
  
Four months ago, when he had first brought her to his flat, she'd paled at seeing the walls and demanded he change them immediately. Having just admitted he was in love with her, and being on the high of having her love him in return, had moved him to call a painter before they were out of the building. They stayed in a hotel for three nights while the entire flat was redone.  
  
Rome wasn't built in a day, but his little niche in London was.  
  
After that, she'd just been so floored that he would go such a distance for her irrational requests and think nothing of it, her behavior was nothing short of angelic. Their comfort level hadn't been where it was now, and so he was still a little wary of holding her after he heard her crying in the middle of the night--not sure if she'd hit him or kiss him--but somehow they had survived it.  
  
Simon absently kissed the side of her head.  
  
He loved her, not because she was stuck inside another woman's body, but in spite of it. You could not lose that much of yourself and expect to survive if you were not a strong enough person.  
  
Allison was an extremely strong woman.  
  
She had to be.  
  
Or else she just wouldn't have survived.  
  
She moaned once in her sleep and then settled with her head close to his neck. Simon wrapped his arm tighter around her and looked at the moonlight filtering over her cheekbones.  
  
They would get through this.  
  
They'd gotten through everything else.  
  
* * *  
  
Sydney had gone back to the room later that night to find Sark missing. It hurt, but she wasn't worried about him. Sark could take care of himself, something they both knew very well. So it was with a bit of surprise the next morning that she awoke to find him sitting on the edge of her bed, watching intently.  
  
"Um," she struggled past her grogginess, "Good morning?"  
  
He continued to stare at her, his face unreadable. "Get dressed. We're going out."  
  
She blinked and he was gone.  
  
Sydney glanced down at the sheets puddled about her waist and then at the door. With a rebellious look, she put her head back down on the pillow, where it remained for another five minutes exactly.  
  
Exasperated at herself and the situation, she screamed under her breath, tossing her legs over the side of the bed. Mechanically, she searched for clothes and the appropriate accessories. Black t-shirt, black pants, black shades. What else did she need? Maybe a funky purse with her fake ID.  
  
With one last sweep of the room, Sydney cursed the fact that he was once again telling her what to do.  
  
And she was listening.  
  
* * *  
  
Sark didn't comment on her tardiness, and she didn't offer an explanation. When he merely gestured with his chin to the Mercedes, Sydney reached inside her bag for a bandanna to tie over her head. He peeled out of the lot before she had a chance to put her seatbelt on and continued to drive recklessly until she finally got her anger to subside long enough to rest her hand atop his on the gearshift.  
  
Getting the message, but not wanting to listen, he shifted again, flipped her hand off and took a curve just a little too sharply for her comfort. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sydney managed to toe off her flip- flops and plant her feet firmly on the dash. Sark refused to comment.  
  
She looked out the window.  
  
He continued to drive.  
  
* * *  
  
Not until they were inside the town's main roads did Sark finally lessen the pressure on the accelerator and Sydney found she could breathe normally again. It wasn't that she was worried they were going to have an accident-- because she wasn't, she trusted him enough to get them out of every possible situation--or that she didn't feel safe in a car with him--because she'd never felt anything but.  
  
Driving was one of three ways Sark got the anger out of his system. The more reckless he drove, the more infuriated she knew he was. By expression, he was courteous, almost normal. He asked if the temperature was okay, if she'd like him to put the top up, if there was anywhere in particular she wished to go.  
  
Sydney answered yes to this first and no to the rest.  
  
And so they came to be driving along in a two-lane road, taking in the sights of normalcy and ordinary lives when a black sedan pulled next to them. Sydney noted it and knew Sark had seen them coming a while back. He pulled ahead in traffic, not wanting to lose a race, and let a smile cross his face briefly.  
  
When the sedan pulled next to them again, she got worried.  
  
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at the car and she knew his eyes had widened in shock even with sunglasses on.  
  
"Sydney, get down!"  
  
She ducked and nearly cracked her head on the dashboard as Sark slammed on the brakes.  
  
Something whooshed past her and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She looked up just in time to see the explosion.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
"A missile," he breathed calmly, his only show of nerves as he pulled them back into traffic smoothly and headed back for the scenic route.  
  
"How did you know to--?"  
  
"You told me."  
  
* * * 


End file.
